Us
by Anthea Frances
Summary: When strangers appear in Hogwarts, familiar characters try to discover not who they are, but what lies between them. AU. Marauder era.
1. No One

**Title: **Us

**Chapter 1:** No One

**Author: **tallshrimp

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the world of Harry Potter nor its characters. Therefore, I am not gaining any monetary profit from this.

**Author's Note:** Please check my profile for further information on this story. Thank you.

* * *

"Help me," he mutters, stumbling over the uneven ground. He could not see. Dark, the moon could not light the world bright enough in its crescent form. It tries though.

"Help me," he says again, louder. His jaw clenches and unclench. He breathes hard and heavy, the cuts on his chest widening with each rise and fall, as he trudges toward the large black silhouette of a castle. At least, he thinks it's a castle. He hopes it was a bright, warm castle. Or an abandoned cottage. Either one would satisfy him as long as it was safe and had medical supplies. He really needs those supplies. Magic can only do so much, and it was slowly seeping out of him with each step.

"Please," he almost cries. He talks though no person except the still bodies on his back and in his arms is around. He wishes someone was around. As he blinks away the blood—he can't tell if its own or someone else. He's begging the silence it isn't his friend's—he wishes _something_ was around to help. He's wishing a lot lately for living beings, for people who should be alive. He trips. But he catches himself, and the curly-haired girl in his arms, before the ground can rise closer to his face.

He continues on.

If it weren't for the caked dirt on his cheek, and the possible light numbness, he would have felt the red hair tickling his skin. If it weren't for many things, he would be feeling a lot more. Not that he would want to. He's fine without the physical pain. He's okay listening to the voice in his head ("Just one more step...one more...") and the memory of three best friends laughing rather than the harsh, too shallow breaths of people, crunches of leaves, and the hoots of distant dying owls. If he could he would block the mental anguish. He would stop feeling even more. But only for a short while, he thinks, tightening his grip on the girl, hiking the boy on his back higher. There are some things he would want to scorch forever on his heart.

Hogwarts smiles at the thought and opens the gate, slowly, quietly, and lovingly.

He stares at it then passes through. He hurries his steps, seeing lights twinkle ahead. Hogwarts brightens amidst the shadows, not frightened by these three strangers. She has never seen them before, but knows that they are her children. A mother always knows.

The dirt under his feet begin to soften and harden depending on his tracks. Holes fill themselves up,caring to hustle to prevent another tangle of feet, and grass flattens to the ground; pebbles and rocks roll away. Before him and his unconscious friends, a path clears itself in the dark, urged by the warm, glowing light ahead. He does not notice. Instead, he focuses on the large double doors in front and the sense of urgency filling him. His whole body tenses, readies itself for the inevitable explosion.

"Help me," he mutters through clenched teeth.

"Help me," he says again, adjusting and balancing the bodies, powering his legs.

"Help me!" He shouts, and the doors crash open from his foot, from his adrenaline, from magic. "HELP THEM!!" He screams, hopeless names and words unknowingly spilling out. "DUMBLEDORE!! POPPY!! SOMEBODY!! PLEASE!! PLEASE JUST HELP THEM.."


	2. Dumbledore

**Title****:** Us

**Chapter 2:** Dumbledore

**Author: **tallshrimp

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the world of Harry Potter nor its characters. Therefore, I am not gaining any monetary profit from this.

**Author's Note:** Please check my profile for further information on this story. Thank you.

* * *

Magic worked in the most strangest of ways: it may save; it may destroy. It may stop one from performing a bad deed, or power the terribly corrupted. It allows itself to be manipulated, loved, and hated. It asks a price, sometimes before or so very after. It leaves, and it comes back. It is silent, loud, simple. Mysterious.

It hums in me now, that tricky, flitting beloved devil. It surrounds my heart, and the beating of the small organ seems to echo in the cavities of my body. It snickers. Tricky, flitting beloved devil of mine—what are you trying to say?

I hold back a sigh. No matter how I ask, Magic will not tell me its secret about the boy. I will have to discover it myself.

I accept the challenge.

And I wonder, how hard can it be? The boy sits there, watching Madame Pomfrey treat his male companion just as he watched her heal his female friend. He waits there, for that last spell, that last sip of potion, so that he can sponge the redhead clean: fingers trailing softly over the skin, combing through the hair, hovering a breath from red, swelling spots.

Yes, I know that is what he's waiting for; he did it to the female.

But when will he wash himself? He leaves his black hair disheveled and caked in blood; hardened red streams surround cuts and off-white patches; dirt stains cover ripped clothes and pale skin; his mouth, once desperately shouting my name, is a stone line on his face—that, I admit, is the most curious thing.

He came crashing in with no wards warning me about his arrival. He came, calling me like he knew me, calling Poppy like he knew her.

I never met him. Neither did she. And he figured that out. Perhaps that is why he looks on with a neutral face. He no longer trusts us.

Good. I do not trust him.

But he looks to be another unfortunate victim of Tom's, my mind reasons. He must be; it does seem like it. His hands are trembling, though he tries to hide it. However, there must be more significance to him and his friends. Why else would the devil eye them mischievously over my shoulder?

Poppy is done. She moves toward the boy now, anxious. But he shakes his head, and speaks when she persists.

"Let me. Please."

It would be more like Poppy to dismiss his words. It is in her mediwitch—and maternal—ways to care and treat whoever and for however long. But she leaves. Why? He might have said something else, though I didn't hear anything. It might have been in his eyes; I couldn't see. I follow her to her office soon after. I could not bear to watch the boy's actions. Everyone—even the bloody—has a right to privacy.

"Poppy." She startles, quickly turning my way.

"Headmaster," she says with a hand on her heart.

"How are they?"

"Hurt. Terribly. Cruciatus Curse on the two, but no more than once luckily. Cuts and bruises. Deep in the back, arm, and leg areas. The girl lost more blood, but the boy suffers from a concussion. Poison."

"Poison? That's unlike him."

"Is it?" I cannot answer that. She knows, and lets the silence hang for a minute. "Poison. Laced onto a knife probably."

"Who?"

"The girl. The reason for much of the blood loss."

"Were you able to find out their identity? Age perhaps? They aren't our students."

"No. Seventeen, it seems."

"I see. They are of age."

"For what?" She glares at me, her eyes narrow and accusing, and I realize she is breathing shakily. She has been the whole time. This time I sigh.

"Was it," I ask with a softer voice, "really that hard—treating them?" Her silence answers the question. Her words affirm it.

"When that boy had his back turned for a moment, I cast a quick diagnosis spell on him." She pauses. I know who she refers to. "He should be dead. Or insane. They all should be." I lower my eyes. Magic, I knew, worked in the most strangest of ways: it is both wonderful and horrible.

"Perhaps they are." I turn, opening her office door.

"They're children Albus." I wait.

"Yes Poppy," I reply, and I continue my way towards the three strangers. This time, I do not hide my presence. As I approach, I see that he is almost done; I think there are freckles on the redhead's face. They do look so young, I think as I reach the end of the bed.

"You waited in the shadows," the boy says. I smile to hide my surprise.

"My apologies. I wanted to wait until you were settled." He does not reply. I hear the snickers again. I cannot stand it. "If you are well enough, can you recount the events that led to you being here?"

"You know of course."

"Pardon?"

"Voldemort and his Deatheaters attacked us."

"You're not afraid to say his name?"

"Will he come here?" I pause.

"No," I whisper softly. "He will not." The boy places his hands on his lap, his friend less dirty.

"I know," he replies just as quietly. We stay like this for a few minutes, his eyes on his friend and mine on him. The devil's on all of us. He must be hiding something.

"Why did he attack you?"

"Does he need a reason?" He shrugs. "She's a muggleborn. I'm half."

"And your friend?"

"Half," he says, biting his lip. Liar.

"His hair looks familiar. The red color runs in the Weasley family. Do you know them?"

"Most wizards and witches are related to each other." For a moment, his eyes focus on mine. The green irises blind me, seeping into my thoughts. "I might even be related to you," he says. Such a strong look.

"Perhaps." I fix a small smile on my face as I think about my family. You aren't. "Where were you attacked? If there are others, we might—"

"Some woods. You don't have to check, no one else is there. It was just the three of us."

"What were you three doing?" He looks down then back up. His knuckles whiten then relax.

"Hiding." He isn't telling me something.

"Why?"

"Everyone hides." I could not argue with that. These are dark times indeed. I blink.

"How did you get here then? Apparation?"

"Of course not." He looks up with a slight curve in his mouth then turns to the girl. "_Hogwarts, A History_ states that no one can apparate onto Hogwarts grounds. It's impossible," he finishes with a whisper. As he adjusts her white blanket, Poppy's words echo in my mind: _They're children Albus_. But do such things exist in times of war?

"What will you do now?" I ask. He tenses.

"Try to head home."

"You're going back?"

"We're going home. Always are. Always trying to. It's just taking a little more time than we thought." He speaks softly, but with strength. He is placing the truth just beyond my reach. I adjust my glasses and a tickling sensation runs down my back.

"Are you tired?" Where did this question come from? Of course he is I think, yet I ask. "Perhaps," my voice continues, "you can stay here. For a little while, until you gather your strength. You may attend classes. Such ordinary moments may prove a better respite than a bed in the infirmary."

"She does miss it," he says with a soft smile.

"Who?"

"Her--" His mouth closes quickly, the loud snap of his teeth igniting my suspicion once again. He stares at me intently and his hand motions to the girl on the bed.

"She misses it—school. She misses the assignments and the professors, the books and the ink."

"Then why stop attending?"

"She made her decision." He looks over his friends' bodies, his eyes freezing over the soft rise and fall of their chests. "They both did. They decided that there were some things more important than school."

"There's nothing more important than education, my dear boy," I said with a smile.

"People's lives are," he responded immediately. "Another person's life is more important than the lives they could live. They should have." For a couple of minutes, silence reigned. I could not say anything. He looked so sad and burdened. He looked so guilty. Why? Staring at his companions, whose youth I once saw now seemed like an illusion all wanted to cling to, why must this teenager feel guilty? Just what befell them?

"We would like to stay here," he said, his voice sounding like it could be next to my ear. "If you don't really mind that is."

"I suggested it, did I not?"

"Of course." His features softened. "They do seem horrible, don't they? My friends."

"They look like they went through a lot."

"They did. They deserve some rest."

"You do too, I'm sure." He did not answer. "Do you know how Hogwarts education system works?" One corner of his lips turn up.

"Fairly well. We would be seventh years."

"According to your ages—around seventeen correct?--that would be the most likely. Do you know about our Houses?"

"Gryffindor for the brave, Slytherin for the cunning, Ravenclaw for the intelligent, and Hufflepuff for the loyal. Are you going to sort us?"

"I'm surprised you heard the cunning usually goes to Slytherin. Many students have the unfortunate notion that it houses the evil." He glances at me.

"Evil doesn't grow in one spot. It can live anywhere." His reply silences me for a moment.

"Yes," I say sadly. "How right you are. I won't sort you since this is temporary. You may choose instead."

"My friends go to Gryffindor."

"And yourself?" He bites his lip.

"I'd like to join them, but," he pauses. "I'll go to Slytherin."

"Interesting. May I ask why?"

"I'm curious as to what would happen if I were placed in Slytherin."

"Interesting again. You know curiosity killed the cat." He looks at me. "But the answers brought it back." He smiles tightly.

"The cat seems to barely escape death often if that's the case."

"A cunning cat, I'm sure. Your real names?" His mouth opens only to quickly shut. "To enroll you, I need your names. You understand of course?" He looks away. He won't give them to me.

"Of course." He sighs. "She is... Jamie Westley. He is... Greg Harrison. And I, I am... Jean Ronaldo."

"French?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your name has a French origin. Is that where you all are from?"

"I never knew my family's origin. My parents died when I was young."

"I apologize." If that is true.

"Don't." He shrugs. "It was a long time ago."

"I see." I look at him. He refuses to meet my gaze. "Well then," I say, standing up. "I better get to work and make accommodations." Still no response. "Welcome to Hogwarts Jean."

"Thank you." Perhaps it is not I who you should thank, I think, looking at the door leading to Poppy's office. I sigh. I nod. I doubt he sees it. I turn to leave, but I suddenly feel Magic powering up.

"_Tergeo_," Jean says, flicking his wand without sparing me a glance. Immediately, Poppy rushes out.

"You shouldn't have used magic before I diagnosed you! What if your spell triggered a curse?" I pause, in case Poppy's lecture of medical propriety and young reckless boys trigger a cursing from Jean. But he only watches her with unwavering eyes, unminding of her waving wand. When she quiets, he makes no rebuttal. I being to leave then turn again at the sound of his voice:

"You're right," he says. He looks at her; different, I think. His mouth is slightly curved. His eyes is softer. "I'm sorry." His eyes suddenly locks onto mine. I leave. His face never changed.

Tricky, flitting beloved devil of mine—why do you trust him?


End file.
